


Peonies

by gwennolmarie



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Blood and Injury, Injury, M/M, Pre-Canon, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, The Journal™, Underage Drinking, Unrequited, actually not The Journal, but another journal, morston
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-09-24 13:45:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17101718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwennolmarie/pseuds/gwennolmarie
Summary: "His heart thumps hard and he follows orders for once, heads for his tiny tent and slips inside. Strips his coat and holsters then lays down in his day-clothes. Flips to the page with that drawing.Confirms his wildest dream.“Amaryllis,” John says a little louder, not sure if he’s pronouncing it just right. "





	1. Amaryllis

Even when John was first picked up by the Van Der Linde gang, he remembers, Arthur was always open about his soulmark.

It was _stupid_ , John thought, a bunch of lines that made no sense, looked like someone scribbled over his forearm, from the back of Arthur’s hand up to his elbow.

Except it never washed clean.

He caught Arthur frowning at it occasionally, and though John wanted to pick and pester...

Something about this felt off limits.

As John’s birthday approached he grew anxious.

He hoped his mark appeared in a place easily concealed.

He’d never told his birthday to Dutch, or Hosea, or anyone since… since.

He was rapidly approaching adulthood, the beginning of the end, and he had to keep it bottled up.

What if he never got a mark?

What if he was one of those poor souls who had no mate.

He stares down at the sketchbook Arthur had given him, it was an old one that had been recently replaced.

Arthur had dropped it in his lap the other day, grumbling about how he didn’t like the paper.

A few pages were ripped out, but John didn’t mind.

In his moments alone he pulled the thing out and flipped through Arthur’s sketches, traced his fingers over the loops in his handwriting, marveled at how the man could capture scenery in a way that made John feel as though he’d seen it himself.

His favorites were the flowers and herbs, their names concisely written beneath or beside each sketch.

He turned to the page where Arthur’s touch ended and his own stupid doodles started.

Mostly flowers, trying to emulate Arthur’s drawings but only ending up with half-assed childish scribbles.

He drags the pencil across the paper senselessly, just to fill the hours until he turns eighteen.

After the fire grows cold he lights a lantern and wanders the camp, journal in hand, peers at all the weeds, tries to find something that strikes inspiration.

He finds it, not far from Arthur’s closed tent.

A beautiful flower, peachy-pink in the candlelight, with tens if not hundreds of petals.

He thumps to the ground and opens up to a new spread.

Draws in the same way as always, pushing and dragging lead against paper without any effort or significant thought.

He gets through one whole page, almost rips it out in frustration at his own incompetence.

He takes a deep breath and thinks about Arthur, thinks about the care and thought the man puts into every stroke of his writing utensil.

Never making a mark without intent.

He draws the flower thrice more without success, chews on the end of the pencil then changes position.

John lays flat on his stomach, tilts the sketchbook up so the flower is in his line of sight, just above the journal.

He draws, careful and pausing every few seconds, measuring the same way he aims his gun, uses distance markers and basic knowledge of three-dimensional shapes.

It’s okay, in the end.

He can imagine it looks like something Arthur may have produced when he was younger and as inexperienced as John.

His arm itches.

He sets down the journal, curses at the bugs, vicious this summer.

Shoves up his sleeve and holds the crook of his elbow up to the lantern.

He…

He can’t _breathe_.

Recognizes the lines immediately.

It’s his favorite, of Arthur’s sketches, a star-shaped flower, Arthur’s flourish in the letters.

“ _Amaryllis_ ,” John whispers, strokes the tender mark, scared it’s not real.

“The hell’re ya doin’, Marston?” Arthur’s voice calls from the edge of his tent.

John scrambles to pull his sleeve down, close the journal and stand up in the same movement.

Knocks over the lantern in the process.

“Shit!’ John curses and jumps over to the tiny, spreading fire, tries to stomp it out.

Water is splashed onto the fire. John follows the stream to see Arthur, frowning, holding a canteen.

“Well?” Arthur prompts.

“Uh… I’m…” John scratches the back of his neck, frantically drops his arm back down when his sleeve starts to slip towards his elbow.

He can hardly see Arthur, the barest of moonlight shining over them.

He does see Arthur roll his eyes. Practically hears how annoyed the older man is.

“Go lay down, Marston,” Arthur rubs his own face tiredly. He’s only wearing an undershirt and faded, ripped pants.

John can see the mark in full.

Every line he just etched into the sketchbook, trying so hard to capture the beauty of the flower.

Trying to emulate Arthur.

His heart thumps hard and he follows orders for once, heads for his tiny tent and slips inside.

Strips his coat and holsters then lays down in his day-clothes.

Flips to the page with that drawing.

Confirms his wildest dream.

“ _Amaryllis_ ,” John says a little louder, not sure if he’s pronouncing it just right.

His chest feels tight.

He flips to the page of his own drawing.

Fingers clench the paper, wrinkling it.

He doesn’t…

John’s having an awful hard time, reasoning with himself, that he…

Little Johnny Marston, Arthur Morgan’s soulmate.

He closes the journal, wants to toss it in the river…

Tucks it under his pillow instead. Twists his arm so he can study the mark closer, rub a finger roughly over the stinging redness.

“Fuck,” he murmurs.

He can’t help but feel, that somehow this is his own fault.

That he tried so hard to be like Arthur, to catch some of the light shining off that man, that he somehow imposed his soul upon the older man.

There’s no way that someone like Arthur would want _greasy_ little Johnny Marston.

Every girl Arthur had ever flaunted his mark to, teased and flirted, trying to see if it meant something to them.

Hundreds of girls, all over the country and he gets saddled with _John_.

John bites clean into his lower lip, doesn’t realize he’s trying not to cry until he physically chokes on a sob.

He can’t tell.

Arthur already seemed to hate him, picked on him constantly, tore down his accomplishments by pointing out how he could’ve done better.

If he told Arthur…

The older man would surely tell Dutch…

Who, John was sure, would throw him out in an instant, for perverting his favorite ‘son’.

John never gets to sleep that night.

Bandages his arm and buttons the sleeves at his wrist. 


	2. Omen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not fair. 
> 
> Arthur had such an obvious love for women.
> 
> Even entertained a few non-soulmate relationships with ladies in the past. 
> 
> So who exactly decided that Arthur would get saddled with John?

He avoids Arthur like he avoids the water.

He’s terrified of both.

He catches himself staring blankly.

Worrying over the moment when Arthur inevitably finds out.

He can picture the righteous anger in the older man’s blue eyes.

Arthur isn’t quick to anger.

He’s more often than not the most level-headed of the gang, besides Hosea.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t ruthless when determined.

John closes his eyes and sees himself dead.

Empty brown.

Glazed over and hazily reflecting the setting sun.

\--

He’s called out for the moments of lapsing attention.

In the middle of breakfast one morning he’s still.

Spoon hanging loosely in his hand as he stares into the fire.

Arthur reaches a leg out and nudges John’s calf with the toe of his boot.

John recoils, almost dropping his bowl of cooked oats.

Arthur’s frowning at him.

Luckily, they’re the first awake.

“Ah,” John clears his throat, “Sorry, got… lost.”

“Yeah, Marston, I could see that,” Arthur’s still watching him.

John forces himself to take a bite.

Even with the fearful nausea building in his gut.

Arthur’s still watching.

“Thanks, for uh...,” John lifts the bowl awkwardly.

“Sure.”

Still _watching_.

“We ridin’ in for supplies today?” John asks.

“Not ‘til noon.”

Still watching.

John finishes the last of his oats in two big bites and sets his bowl, with the spoon, next to the fire.

“Yer turn to clean the dishes,” Arthur grunts.

 _Finally_ goes back to eating.

It takes everything in John’s might to not sigh in relief.

“Okay, will later,” John says.

His arm itches.

“I’ll be back,” The younger man mutters.

Heads for the river.

\--

He sits a distance away from the bank at first.

Hands clenched on his thighs as he stares hard at the slow-running river.

It’s not deep, here, just around two feet, with pockets of deeper waters where the sand bottom has pocketed.

Pooled.

John scoots a little closer.

Slips off his boots and socks.

Dips his toes in.

It’s not unbearably cold, but it isn’t pleasant.

He rolls up his pant leg, sticks his foot in.

Swallows hard.

He has vague memories of learning to swim.

Not making it out of the lake by his own strength.

Having to be dragged, half-conscious, onto the shore.

He shudders.

Runs fingers through his oily hair, itchy scalp.

Pulls his foot out to kneel at the edge of the water and tip his head over.

He washes it as best he can without soap.

Leans a little too far, with his eyes closed it isn’t as easy to balance.

He gasps, overcorrects and falls on his ass before scrambling away from the water.

Sits there, wide-eyed and panting.

He lays back against the grass with a thump and bites down on a cry.

Frustration at its limits.

It’s not fair.

Arthur had such an obvious love for women.

Even entertained a few non-soulmate relationships with ladies in the past.

So who exactly decided that Arthur would get saddled with John?

John knows that he himself doesn’t have a preference between gals and fellas.

It’s just easier to stick to gals.

He rubs at his face with wet hands.

Sits up, wrings out his hair.

Slips his socks and boots back on.

Heads back to camp.

\--

Arthur isn’t in sight when he returns, but there is a sizeable stack of bowls and spoons.

He washes them in the wash bucket then retrieves fresh water for the next meal.

“John,” Hosea calls from his tent, “Come here.”

“Yeah?” John asks as he shuffled over.

Hosea frowns at him for a moment.

“You okay?” The older man asks.

“Sure,” John shrugs.

“Hm. Can you pick me up something at the general store? You can’t tell Arthur…”

“Maybe?” John squints suspiciously.

“Relax, it’s nothing heinous, just a small gift,” Hosea pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket

It’s a receipt.

“Wassit for?” John asks through a yawn.

“A set of colored wax pastels. They were meant to go with the journal, but they had to be shipped from Europe.”

“Okay,” John takes the receipt, “Can do. When you gonna give them to him?”

“Probably tonight, Dutch’ll be back, hopefully with word of success.”

“Celebration then?” John asks, “Can I drink?”

He thinks he could use it.

“Sure,” Hosea laughs.

\--

He and Arthur ride into town right before noon.

The streets are oddly empty.

Arthur heads to pick up their order of basic bulk foods.

“I have to go grab some lozenges for Hosea,” John says.

“Sure,” Arthur calls back, not even turning his head.

For some reason, it hurts.

But there is no _reasoning_ behind the feeling.

Arthur doesn’t _know_.

John hasn’t _told_ him.

Soulmates often had a heightened sense of protection and a need to be close, following their first contact after their marks come through.

John supposes the little kick this morning doesn’t count.

Maybe it has to be skin-to-skin.

He goes to the general store.

Hides the crayons in his coat and carries the lozenges in his hand.

Returns to the wagon and hops in to help Arthur load the supplies.

He counts twice as many bottles of liquor than their usual number.

“Lotta hooch,” he mumbles.

“A bottle per person,” Arthur jokes.

John looks at him incredulously.

“‘M kiddin’, Marston.”

“Right.”

\--

They come back to loud laughter and the gang huddled at the front of Dutch’s tent.

Their leader is perched atop a crate.

“Ladies,” Dutch bows, “Gents,” he gestures flamboyantly, “Now is the time! The time for joy and makin’ plans.”

“What’s this ‘bout?” John murmurs as he comes up next to Hosea.

The older man smiles.

John sees a touch of worry in the aging eyes.

He checks to see that Arthur isn’t looking and slips Hosea the crayons and the lozenges.

Hosea cups his shoulder fondly in thanks.

“We’re moving West!” Dutch calls out.

 _Crows_.

There are cheers in response.

“Where West?” Arthur asks.

A few hum in agreement.

Curious.

Eager.

“Arthur, _Son_ ,” Dutch says, and he sounds odd.

John can’t place it but it makes his shoulders tense up.

“That can all be figured out later! Right now it’s time to rejoice!” Dutch says adamantly and hops down.

The gang chats about the heist they’d just pulled off.

The sizable take.

The _thirteen_ bank lockers they’d ransacked at the Capital Bank a few cities over.

Apparently, it went perfectly.

John feels happy.

Mostly.

He sees a raven perched on the pot prop over the cold firepit.

He wants to draw it.

Tries to save the image in his head, for later.

Like Arthur does.

\--

Arthur joins him by the fire that night.

Bottles in both their hands.

Arthur toasts him.

Rubs the wound on his leg.

It was mostly healed but Dutch had still been adamant about him sitting this job out.

Arthur was bitter but…

Seemed to understand.

Stupid accident, it had been.

Stray nail from a horseshoe got stuck in the fender of Arthur’s saddle.

No one noticed until it was too late and Arthur’s leg was spilling blood.

A slice through the tissue, from knee to ankle.

Arthur said he hadn’t even felt it.

John toasts him back.

Takes a sip.

Almost coughs at the burn.

He hadn’t drank a lot in his life.

When he did, he preferred ale to rum.

He glances at Arthur who has his chin lifted.

Bottled tipped up.

Giving John a clear view of his Adam’s Apple bobbing.

John swallows his feelings.

Looks away to stare into the flames.

Drinks.

\--

It’s well into the night and John feels pissed.

What exactly, was wrong with him?

 _So_ he was young.

 _So_ he was stupid.

But was Arthur really so stuck up to think that John couldn’t change?

John nods to himself.

He could do it, he could do _anything_ for Arthur.

Someone nudges him.

“Havin’ a good conversation with yerself?” Arthur murmurs. Standing next to him.

“Why are you standing?” John asks, slurring his words heavily.

Arthur looks at him curiously then huffs a laugh.

“Sit!” John says and tugs on Arthur’s pant-leg.

“I ain't-a dog, kid,” Arthur grumbles.

The older man sits anyway.

On the other half of the big stump John was sitting on.

The lone pine they’d felled, when the gang first claimed the camp, to have turned into posts.

John blinks, scoots over to give the bigger man more room.

Curls in on himself a little.

Arthur’s bottle is gone.

John isn’t sure if he finished it or gave it away.

Arthur doesn’t seem drunk.

John feels drunk.

He holds out his half-empty bottle.

Their hands brush.

John tenses hard.

Arthur’s arm twitches.

The older man looks a little confused.

Arthur takes the bottle, shakes it a little, side-to-side, then scowls at John.

“I really was kiddin’, when I said a-bottle-a-piece,” Arthur says.

Takes a swig.

“I hardly drink, we can spare a bottle,” John shrugs.

His tongue feels dry and sticky when he swallows.

He shoves his hands under his thighs.

Shakes his head when Arthur offers the bottle back.

Can’t hold his tongue.

“Wassit?” John asks and gestures to Arthur’s soulmark.

Arthur leans away slightly, looks at John oddly.

John isn’t sober enough to decipher the expression.

“Flowers, I think, whoever’s drawn it ’s’a shit artist,” Arthur gripes.

It stings, a little, but John agrees, in his head.

“That ain’t a nice thing to say about yer soulmate.”

“Psh,” Arthur rubs at the mark, roughly, like he could scrub it away, “I’m almost thirty, Marston, startin’ to think I ain’t never gonna meet ‘em.”

“I’m sure she’ll be worth the wait,” John forces out.

Sometimes…

Sometimes when your soulmate dies, you can get another.

John wonders if it’s worth the risk.

Would Arthur be happier?

John looks back into the flames.

Feels anxiety bubbling.

Oozing its way through the warmth of the alcohol.

Breaking the barrier of placation he’d built for himself.

He gets up and goes a ways out of the camp.

Ignoring Arthur’s confused calls after him.

He vomits onto the roots of a tree.

Stumbles back and finds his tent.

He lays down.

He cries.

Until his throat feels flayed raw.

He sleeps.


	3. Golden Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dutch said there was a gang in this area…” Arthur murmurs. 
> 
> “Yet this is where he wants to move us?”
> 
> Arthur doesn’t answer, a crooked frown shaping his mouth.

He and Arthur scout ahead of the wagon-train.

The dark dirts turn into pale sands and green becomes sparse.

They have a copy of the map Dutch had acquired, currently folded up and tucked into one side of Arthur’s saddlebags.

“That don’t look good,” He hears Arthur grumble next to him.

John looks up at the older man then follows his gaze.

Two wagons, overturned on the side of the trail.

Trunks and suitcases lay, open-faced, locks broken and contents scattered.

Six bodies are in a pile.

Looks like parents and four older children.

“Shit,” John says, stomach turning at the image.

Six people, gutted like fish, rotting in the wicked sun.

Arthur calls Bo’ to a halt and John follows suit with Old Boy.

The older man is searching the horizon, just in case.

But even John can tell the bodies have been here for days.

When he looks closer he doesn’t count as many limbs as there should be for six people.

His stomach churns again and he looks down to focus on the horn of his saddle.

“Dutch said there was a gang in this area…” Arthur murmurs.

“Yet this is where he wants to move us?”

Arthur doesn’t answer, a crooked frown shaping his mouth.

He spurs Bo’ on.

John follows suit.

\--

They make it to the empty ranch.

It’s not ideal.

The fence is falling apart, there’s rat shit coating the floor of every room.

He and John share a look of disgust and dismay.

They are over two days ahead of the rest of the gang, if they leave everything in this state they’ll never hear the end of it.

“Shit,” Arthur says slowly, taking in the main house they’re standing in.

“Yeah, plenty o’ it,” John mutters, poking at the moth-eaten upholstered chair near the tall-as-him fireplace.

A mouse scurries out and John jumps sideways with a startled sound.

Arthur’s hands grip his shoulders firmly and pull him away.

John swallows his shock and then looks incredulously at the older man.

Arthur _had_ been on the other side of the room.

“Jesus, Marston,” Arthur hisses, roughly letting go and moving away.

John’s shoulders ache like they’ve been sunburnt.

“Thought there was a squatter or somethin’,” Arthur grumbles then rubs a hand over his chin.

“Sorry,” John shrugs.

It’s hot in the building, hot in this hellscape.

Arthur has his shirt unbuttoned quite-a-ways down and sleeves rolled up.

Soulmark out in the open.

John’s trying not to look at it.

They’re both sweating like _hell._

John pops another button on his chest but keeps his sleeve cuffs tightly closed around his wrists.

“Come on,” Arthur says after a minute of silence between them, “Let’s find a way to clean this up.”

\--

Arthur finds a flat shovel and a tattered broom.

They start in the far corner of the room furthest from the front door.

Arthur scrapes, John sweeps.

It takes them around six hours, just to get the floors looking like wood again.

They should probably be scrubbed, but that’ll have to wait.

The sun is setting.

John goes hunting around the property, in the last hour of light.

He keeps his hand on his pistol the whole time.

He finds a stack of empty crates, the shipping kind, messily-hand-painted labels declaring ‘Ophelia's Pickles’.

John drags them back to the house.

Arthur’s built a fire and has his bedroll laid out in the open.

Shotgun next to him.

“We ain’t gonna sleep in there?” John asks, confused, with a jerk of his head as he drops the crates.

“I ain’t riskin’ the plague, you go right ‘head,” Arthur mumbles around a cigarette.

John blinks tiredly at the older man then scoots one of the crates to Arthur’s side before sitting on his.

The exhaustion settles in him like someone’s flooded his brain and muscles with molasses.

He pulls his legs onto the crate, just small enough to fit on there cross-legged.

Arthur has a little sack of dried meat in his lap.

John eyes it briefly then looks at the fire.

His stomach is cramping but he isn’t quite sure if it’s hunger.

His shirt is sticking to him with the sweat but he ain’t hot.

It’s getting colder as it gets darker.

He wants to change into something dry but between being too tired, and Arthur being too close to risk it…

His stomach growls, loudly.

Arthur’s head lifts slowly to look at him and John presses a blistered palm to his belly like he could shove the sound back in.

“Go get your pack, Marston, we both worked up an appetite today,” Arthur says.

“I’m fine,” John mutters and rubs at his temples.

Nausea has been warring with him since his birthday.

It was an occasionally reported side-effect of a Marking.

He thought it would fade with the burning edges of irritated skin around the flower.

It didn’t.

“Marston,” Arthur says in the same voice he uses to give orders during jobs, “Go get your food.”

“I’m _fine_ , Arthur,” John says, firmly, glaring at the older man through his stringy, sweaty hair.

“You damn child,” Arthur scoffs, “What, did you eat all your rations again?”

“No,” John huffs.

And he hadn’t.

He’d hardly touched them.

“Jesus,” Arthur rolls his eyes and rolls to a kneeling position to hold out his canteen, “‘Least drink somethin’.”

John squints at the older man, the side of Arthur’s face painted with the golds and oranges of firelight.

John takes the canteen, mutters before he sips.

“Since when do you care?”

Arthur’s gruff bark of laughter startles John into re-opening his eyes and lowering the canteen.

“What?” John asks.

“Dutch’d skin me if I let anythin’ happen to you, Golden Boy,” Arthur says bitterly.

“...Right,” John says disbelievingly.

“You don’t know that?” Arthur laughs and shakes his head, flicking the butt of the cigarette into the fire and tearing up a piece of jerky to chew on.

“You ain’t the one in danger of Dutch skinnin’,” John mumbles and takes another small sip of water before holding it out and wiping the back of his mouth with his other hand.

“Whatchu mean?” Arthur asks as he takes the canteen back.

Their fingers brush and both of them tense at the feeling.

A bit like a static shock, but not as harsh.

Slower, warmer.

John tangles his fingers together in his lap and stares into the flames.

“What’d you do?” Arthur asks, sounding annoyed.

“Nothin’, Morgan,” John grunts, then settles his feet back on the ground and goes to get his bedroll.

Arthur’s still watching him curiously as the younger man sorts out his sleeping space.

“Forget it, Arthur,” John says, when he can’t stand the feeling of Arthur’s eyes on his back any longer.

John lays down and looks around by craning his neck.

With no tall trees and the only hills or mountains miles away the sky has never seemed so _endless._

And he’s never felt so _small._


	4. Warm Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he’s digging through his pack Arthur sets down the shotgun then collapses onto his bedroll. 
> 
> “What a warm goddamn welcome, huh?” Arthur jokes but John can hear the tightness in the syllables. 
> 
> Can tell, even without looking, that Arthur's jaw is tightly clenched.

John wakes to the sound of the horses braying and stomping their hooves.

And then coyotes crowing and yipping.

John jolts up into a sitting position, squinting in the dark.

He can faintly see Old Boy and Bo’ being circled by coyotes where they’re hitched to the only sturdy portion of the 'pasture' fence.

“Arthur,” John hisses and crawls over to the older man, grabbing one of his pistols and shoving Arthur’s shotgun into his chest.

Arthur’s eyes squint open and he grumbles something in the language of a dreamer.

“For fuck’s sake,” John stands and yanks on Arthur’s arm until the older man starts to get up, “ _Arthur.”_

“Damn, what?” Arthur mumbles and glares at the younger man.

The coyotes start screeching again and John’s never seen Arthur go from half-asleep to battle-ready in under a second like this.

Arthur reaches for him and wraps a hand around the back of John’s neck, his other curled around the shotgun.

“Get inside the house,” Arthur hisses, staring over John’s shoulder in the direction of the coyotes.

“What?” John asks incredulously, shaking off Arthur’s hand, “No, come _on.”_

Arthur looks at him fully, finally, eyes shadowed by the dark.

He looks confused for a second then curses and pushes past John towards the horses.

“Hey!” Arthur shouts as he closes the distance.

There’s eight of them, that Arthur can count in the dim light.

He wishes the moon was full.

Some of them take notice, and Arthur feels John’s presence just behind his left shoulder.

He cocks the shotgun.

Hears the click of John’s pistol’s hammer.

“Come ‘ere, you little bastards,” John calls out as he moves to circle behind the horses.

Arthur moves around the other side.

John keeps his eyes trained on the coyotes while he fumbles to unhitch them, smacks them both and pushes them until they start moving towards the barn.

He and Arthur guard them, walking backward as the coyotes stalk after them.

One of them lunges, jaws snapping just a few feet from John’s ankles.

A shot rings out and the coyote cries, stumbling away.

John glances over to see Arthur’s gun still smoking.

The coyotes scatter a bit, the injured one regrouping in the back, limping on a leg with muscle and skin flayed open, hanging in bloody tatters.

“Get them in the barn,” Arthur orders and John shoves his pistol in his waistband before darting to the barn, unlocking the doors and urging Old boy and Bo’ inside.

He hears another shot ring out behind him, then Arthur cursing.

Another shot, more cursing, another shot.

John feels his anxiety rising, hurries to close the barn with the horses inside and gets his gun back in hand.

Arthur is standing with his gun aimed, left hand bloody where it’s wrapped around the forestock.

“Arthur?” John asks worriedly and jogs over.

Three coyotes lay dead, the other five are high-tailing it away, slipping through the gaps in the broken fence.

“I’m fine,” Arthur says and lowers his gun, glancing over John’s whole form.

Searching.

John shakes his head and moves to grab Arthur’s elbow, above the bloody punctures on the older man’s wrist.

“Hah,” Arthur hisses, “Shit.”

“I’ve got bandages in my pack,” John says quietly.

The punctures are clean in the middle of Arthur’s mark.

The lines of flowers painted red.

John swallows thickly and gently lets go of Arthur before moving back to their little camp in front of the main house.

He hears Arthur’s heavy shuffling after him.

As he’s digging through his pack Arthur sets down the shotgun then collapses onto his bedroll.

“What a warm goddamn welcome, huh?” Arthur jokes but John can hear the tightness in the syllables.

Can tell, even without looking, that Arthur's jaw is tightly clenched.

John finally closes his hand around the roll of bandages and grabs his canteen for good measure.

“It ain't a big deal, Marston,” Arthur says, still right, leaning all his weight on his uninjured arm, chest ever so slightly heaving.

“You don't gotta do that dumb shit,” John grumbles as he grabs hold of the older man's wrist.

A pulse at contact, long and low, coursing in a matter of seconds through what felt like every nerve in his body.

“What?” Arthur asked defensively, voice a little tighter.

But not in the same way.

Not caged and trying to be whatever the older man thought ‘strong’ was.

Confused, just enough to distract the man as John cleans his hands.

Douses the wound in water to get a better look.

John grazes a thumb around the edge of one of the punctures.

“Clean edges…” John mutters

Arthur's breathing does this little sharp whistle before he lets out a big bellow of hot air, warm enough compared to the night's air that John can feel it through his sleeve.

If he entertains the thought, he might think he feels it on his mark also.

“Like I said, no big deal.”

John has one hand's fingers curled around Arthur's wrist.

Thumb and middle barely touching.

His other fingers, the fingers of his marked arm…

They trace the edges of the wounds, checking and rechecking for debris.

He rinses the punctures carefully a few more times.

The blood pools at the surface slowly, only beads and forms rivers over the black mess of lines when John hesitates to rinse them away.

“Hold this,” John says and gets Arthur to sit up and keep the beginning of the bandage in place up near the crook of his elbow.

Arthur goes oddly quiet as John gets the wound bandaged.

Normally he'd tease and pester anyone treating him, John especially.

Tell him a wrap was sloppy.

Complain it was too tight.

John glances up as he’s binding the ends of the bandage.

A familiar knot he can do by feel alone.

Arthur's looking down at him with his brows furrowed, his lips a little parted.

John could write it off as anything.

Pain.

Adrenaline.

Irritation.

But something in his gut nags at him that the heat he's seeing in Arthur's eyes ain't any of those.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's uhhhhhhhhh beeen awhile but i'm working on updating everything so just! hold tight THIS IS ALSO SHORT AAAAAAAAAAA fdj bm

**Author's Note:**

> hit me the fUCK up on tumblr @gwennolmarie


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